The Cryosphere Chronicles

A photographic journey to glaciers around the world.

"Cryosphere"

- Cryosphere refers to any portion of the Earth's surface where water is in solid form, including glaciers, ice caps, ice sheets, sea ice, snow cover, frozen rivers, lakes, and permafrost. The Cryosphere is closely linked to the Hydrosphere and plays a crucial role in the ecosystem and our everyday lives. - I've chosen the name because Cryosphere encompasses a wide range of ice around the world. This blog is meant to chronicle not all glaciers, but those that I experience and photograph in my travels. My vision is to visit and write about as many glaciers and other ice forms as possible while I pursue knowledge and share experiences of a beautiful world of ice. I hope you enjoy the photographs and follow along as I go!

09 March 2018

The day it snowed in
Queenstown, I figured my chances at an alpine crossing of Ball Pass had expired
for the season. It was the one last major objective I had for my summer in the
southern hemisphere so it was sad to admit that it may not happen. I was
working for the New Zealand Census in Queenstown, living out of a van at a DOC
(Department Of Conservation) campsite just out of town. I was close to the end
of my work assignment and was itching to get out and explore more mountains and
hopefully get on some more glaciers.

I had been eyeing the
Tasman Glacier since before I landed in New Zealand. At over 23km
(14mi) long and 4km (2.5mi) wide, it is the country’s largest glacier, and
an obvious target if I were out checking off glaciers. I came across the Ball
Pass hike online while researching the Tasman Glacier; the long
alpine-crossing-style hike went up the Hooker Glacier valley, crossed just
under Mount Cook, New Zealand’s tallest peak, and exited the next valley over,
alongside the Tasman. The map put the route in very close proximity to the
Tasman and Hooker glaciers, and even crossed the Ball glacier near the pass.
With this one long hike I had a chance at visiting three more glaciers in one
final grand tour of Mt. Cook National Park. If the trail were buried in snow,
though, I would likely not make it through to any of the glaciers.

My last week of work saw
mostly warm weather and the snow had all seemed to melt around town and the
nearby peaks. I was watching the forecast for Mt. Cook every day – hoping for
at least a few days of clear weather in which I could attempt the crossing. For
the two days after I finished work in Queenstown, my friend Mandi invited me to
stay at an Air BnB in town with her and four other ladies. We split the cost 6
ways and spent two nights walking distance to town with incredible views
overlooking the magnificent Lake Wakatipu. From the first couch I had sat on in
months, I enjoyed some spectacular sunsets out the massive front room windows.

Sunset over Lake Wakatipu, Queenstown

Before we could get too
used to spending more money than we could afford, we headed out of town. The
girls had been planning two nights on the Routeburn Track, one of New Zealand’s
nine “Great Walks.” I was invited along and surprised to see there was still
space for one more person on the track. The DOC only lets a small
number of people stay in the campgrounds each night, with a few
more in the cushy huts along the track (for $65/night per person), lest
the trails be overrun by tourists. A cold forecast for two nights had us
scrambling to gather enough gear and socks to keep all of the girls warm, but
the weather turned out thankfully much warmer that the below-freezing forecast
had read the day before we departed. While the track is often done one-way, with
a 6 hour car shuttle or hitchhike from the other side, we opted for two nights
in the same campground a few miles from the East trailhead. In addition to
being the only option for available campsites on the trail, an out-and-back
hike the second day allowed us to make the majority of the uphill hike with
daypacks instead of our entire load of camping gear and food.

Hiking the Routeburn Great Walk

Waterfall along the Routeburn Track

We hiked all day and were
rewarded with a viewpoint that granted us a view of the West end of the trail,
some 1,000 meters below and 10 km or so away by trail, just as the clouds broke
enough to catch a glimpse of said trail as well as a few peaks around us.

View along the higher elevation of the Routeburn track

We returned to camp late
and had a lazy morning hanging out and practicing our headstands. We also met
two more American girls who needed a ride to town, and ultimately around to the
west end of the track where they left their car.

On the hike out I got a few
interesting looks, mostly from older men passing by as I followed behind seven
beautiful women all the way back to the trailhead.

The eight of us stopped in
the small town of Glenorchy for some post-hike face stuffing at an amazing
little diner. As soon as I sat down, once again back in cell service, I pulled
up the forecast for Mt. Cook. Incredibly, starting with the next day were four
images of big beautiful suns telling me to leave now before another storm
rolled in the fifth night.

As soon as we finished our
lunch I said goodbye to Mandi and my new friends, driving three hours to a
campsite just outside Mt. Cook National Park. For many travelers in New
Zealand, a Great Walk or two is the culmination of their entire trip and one of
the most physically demanding things they will do. Roughly 18 hours after finishing
the 3 days and almost 40 km on the Routeburn, I would begin another 4-day trip
covering some of the most grueling terrain I have ever been through with one of
the heaviest packs I’d yet carried. I guess you could say the Great Walk was
just the warm up.

I arrived at the visitor
center for Mt. Cook less than 10 minutes after they opened for the day. While
Ball Pass technically needed no permit or camping fees, I was going solo and
thought it a good idea to leave someone my plan, just in case. I also wanted to
ask about route conditions and see if anyone else had been over the pass
recently. The rangers showed photos of the route and, of course, immediately
reminding me that an ice axe, crampons, and the skills to use both were required for
this crossing. When I explained I had been working on a glacier for three
season in Alaska, they relaxed and became much more helpful. One gentleman
spent almost 20 minutes with me going over the best and worst parts of the
route, as well as tips for crossing over the Tasman Glacier. The official route
for Ball Pass actually only crosses Ball Glacier, up high near the pass on the
East side, but I hoped to add on an entire extra day trekking across the
Tasman’s moraine covered lower section up to the white ice. It looked easy on
the map; some 4 km or so from what the ranger said was my best access point,
plus whatever time I spent exploring the much more exciting uncovered ice.
However, he also warned that the map was no longer accurate about how far the
edge of the white ice stretched. By his estimates it would be as much as 7 km
trekking over unstable rocks and boulders on a very topographically complicated
active glacier. That meant I would be adding at least an extra 15km to the
already 27km long alpine crossing. I also planned to do the reverse of the
recommended route simply because I saw exploring the Tasman Glacier as more
important to me than hiking up and over the pass. This meant harder
route-finding through unmarked terrain, and the extra distance and effort would
come in before beginning the climb to the pass and the hardest
part of the route. Since I wrongfully assumed the trek across the glacier would
be fairly flat and easy hiking, I failed to think too much about the potential
added difficulty in the planning phase of my trip.

Trail to Ball Hut

After a short drive to the
Tasman Glacier Viewpoint trailhead, I started hiking just before midday. I
reached Ball Hut (which can be rented for a nominal fee) within three hours of
easy walking and pitched my tent nearby (camping was free). The hut had an
outhouse and a rainwater catchment to supply hikers with fresh drinkable water.
I would camp close to the gully most people use to access the Tasman Glacier,
currently about 120 meters (400 ft) below me. After a quick snack at camp I set
off to scout out my route for the next day. I wanted to be as efficient as
possible getting across the moraine to give myself more time to explore the
white ice of the Tasman. I figured I would be much faster if I knew a good route
down the scree slopes below the gully and how to navigate through the many
crevasses right below the access point. Around the corner from where I stood
the Ball glacier spilled down a steep slope to join the Tasman, creating a
tumultuous, crevasse-ridden section of ice stretching out to nearly the middle
of the Tasman and a few hundred meters “downstream.” Imagine a large calm river
running along and a massive waterfall spilling in on one side. The same forces
creating rapids and waves in water churn out crevasses and seracs in
glacial ice spanning out from the tributary glacier. It just so happened the
confluence of the glaciers happened just up-glacier from the access gulley,
meaning the easiest way to get to the ice puts a person right in the middle the
hardest section of glacier to navigate. If I could find a way through the
crevasses now, it might save me a lot of backtracking and searching for a route
the next morning.

Camp set up above the moraine covered Tasman Glacier

The scree slope down was as
horrendous as I expected, loose rocks of varying sizes held together by dirt
and sand, all randomly deposited by the glacier hundreds or thousands of years
ago when it was much thicker. The loose till now slid under the slightest
pressure, making the way down resemble more a day of skiing than mountain
climbing. It was actually almost fun, so long as I didn’t think of how fun it was
going to be to go back up later! A large shelf of stable rock waited only about
40 meters below camp, then another scree slope ran down another 80 or so meters
or so to a shelf just above the glacier. As the ranger suggested, I followed
that first shelf to near its end where a more gradual slope revealed a way down
the next level of scree below.

Finally at the glacier, I
spent a couple hours scrambling around the moraine covered ice and thinking I
had at least a usable route, though not ideal, wandering through the worst of
the crevasses. It still left a few obstacles in the distance before I could
consider myself in the clear and get to the much more calm center of the
glacier. On my way back toward the edge I found an exposed patch of ice with
clear running water to cool off in and take a drink.

Cooling off on the Tasman Glacier

As I sat down I realized
the sole of one of my shoes was flapping around on the heel, becoming unglued
and likely soon to fall off completely. Not a great start to the trip I had
ahead of me. On closer examination the other shoe was separating as well, and I
was already considering heading back to the car the next day instead of making
my trek. I had only spent an hour or so on the Tasman, but if my shoes started
falling apart that might be all that I get out of this trip!

I began my hike back up
demoralized, but hopeful that I had remembered to put a tube of superglue in my
emergency kit, which was back at camp. As expected, going up the loose rocky
slope was significantly less fun than coming down had been. Every step felt
like I lost more altitude than I gained as rocks slid below my feet. The last
short section would likely be the hardest part of the next day, assuming I had
footwear to even start the trip. At least, I thought, traveling across the main
flat-ish section of the glacier would be fairly easy…

Upon my return to camp I rinsed
the dust out from inside the failing shoes, left them to dry and walked to the
hut in my camp shoes (flip-flops) to fill up on water. Half way through filling
my cooking pot, I noticed that the helicopter I had heard in the distance and
assumed would simply fly overhead was becoming rather loud very suddenly. I
looked toward the glacier just as the rotors rose up from the valley below and
I looked right at the pilot, who seemed to be coming right at me. I was so
surprised I must have either looked absolutely terrified or entirely puzzled,
as if I’d never seen a flying machine before. It finally dawned on me that he
was going to land as close to the hut as he could, and I had jackets and gear
strewn about around me right where he wanted to be. I scooped everything that
might blow away on top of my bag in one wide reach and dropped on top of it,
remembering to grab my hat off my head just before a massive gust of wind hit
me from the hovering helicopter. He landed only a few meters away from me, and
several people with DOC vests on jumped out, one of them walking straight
toward me. I assumed someone was missing in the area, or hurt, or something interesting.
The man very nonchalantly introduced himself and explained, only when prompted,
that they were doing some maintenance on the Ball Hut, as though I should have
expected a helicopter to nearly land on top of me at any moment. He commented
that it was their 9th and final inspection for the day, adding
that they would be enjoying a beer in town in less than 15 minutes. I
half-jokingly asked if I could come with, and they all got a laugh. I probably
would have raced them to the helicopter if they had even joked about having an
extra seat. I said goodbye and returned to camp to attempt some superglue
repairs instead.

Helicopter taking off from Ball Hut

If you can't duct tape it, superglue it!

The glue seemed to hold
even before it fully dried, and by the time I finished dinner I was convinced
it might actually get me through another day. I had my doubts that I would be
completing the entire trek over Ball Pass at this point, though.

The next day as I set out
from camp, thick clouds hid the sun, keeping temperatures cool in the valley
compared to the intense heat of the day before. The glue on m shoes had seemed
to dry, and I made quick work of the scree slopes down to the glacier.

Pointing to the gully I scrambled down, and will eventually have to go back up

At the last minute I
abandoned my planned route from the day before and backtracked down glacier as
soon as I got to the ice, skirting all the way around the entire section of
crevasses and rough sections. This proved to be a better way, and I quickly made
it to the middle of the Tasman and turned up glacier. The clouds hid the
surrounding peaks from me, but also kept me cool as I climbed and descended
hill after hill of ice covered in loose rock. The rocks became larger, and soon
I was literally hopping between boulders bigger than most New Zealand trucks. I
have always enjoyed ‘hiking’ this way, using my hands almost as much as my feet
to move through rough terrain. You really feel like you’re getting somewhere
when you’re moving quickly. However, I soon realized that the extra energy
expended by such movement would soon catch up with me. Two hours in and I felt
as if I had been hiking for an entire day; another hour and I was absolutely
exhausted. As I crested what I had long thought to be the last hill blocking my
view of the clean white ice, I was greeted by a massive drop to a lake, the
opposite side sheer ice cliffs, annoyingly still covered by moraine. The white
ice was in fact visible, though still a long way in the distance. I was tired
enough that I considered turning back, having seen quite enough of this glacier
for one day. But, after an extended snack break, I again decided to push on. I
hit my objective after 3 hours 48 minutes and 7.1 km (4.4 mi), worn out
but excited to see what interesting features New Zealand’s largest glacier held
in secret. I picked my way carefully over the slick ice, finding a way easily
enough over a few rocks and flat sections to avoid emptying my bag to retrieve
the crampons as long as possible. I saw many of the typical glacial formations
of moulins, crevasses, and supraglacial streams to refill on water.

Looking down a crevasse on the Tasman Glacier

I hadn’t walked far before
one such stream seemed to disappear ahead into a mound of ice to the side. Of
course I had to investigate. Sure enough, the river ran straight into the wall
of ice, cutting an opening tall enough for a person, though rather narrow,
winding it’s way through the glacier and dropping ever so slowly down. I
strapped on my crampons and made a half-hearted attempt at a self-portrait in
front of the cave, not moving fast enough to get in place for the 10 second
timer. I quickly realized my outfit would blend in so well to the dirty ice
around me that I never made a second attempt.

Entrance to ice cave on the Tasman Glacier

Instead I retrieved the
camera and moved into the ice cave. This was the kind of thing I had been
looking for out here, bright blue ice glowing inside from the faint light of
day diffused by about a meter of ice between me and the outside world. My
not-quite-waterproof high-top shoes would not handle the depth of the small
river running under my feet, and one sock was wet almost immediately upon
entering the tunnel. I did my best to keep my feet as dry as possible, jamming
crampon points into the walls above the stream and stepping across ledges when
possible. I slowly maneuvered my way through the awkward tunnel, almost always
in contact with both walls via my elbows, shoulders, back and/or head. I was
reminded of canyoneering in desert slots back home in Utah, squeezing sideways
through narrow passages, though a bit more slippery in this scenario.

Selfie near the entrance to the ice cave

The dim light deeper in the
cave provided very little for my camera to pick up inside the cave, so without
a tripod I was forced to stand as still as possible with the camera pressed
against one melting wall for a longer-than-comfortable exposure every time I
wanted to photograph something inside. With a massively high ISO setting
(similar to old-school ASA or ISO sensitivity on film) I squeezed out a few
shots that would prove grainy and unworthy of viewing at full size. The beauty
of the curves of perfect blue ice needs to be shared though!

Several views from inside the ice cave of the Tasman Glacier

Exiting the cave, my brand
new black rain/ski jacket – purchased just weeks before upon misplacing my
expensive Gore-Tex jacket at a dairy farm with an earlier job – was colored
more grey than black thanks to the glacial silt covering many of the walls
leading into the cave. One little ice cave is all it took to remind me why I
shouldn’t buy black or white clothing.

As I repacked my bag –
reclaiming clothing and snacks strewn about the boulders in front of the cave
as I emptied it to retrieve the crampons earlier – a small helicopter came
overhead flying low, beneath the cloud cover overhead. On a clear day, this
valley sees hundreds of tourist-filled choppers flying up the glacier, many
landing for a tour on the ice and others just out for a scenic flight. Today,
having been cloudy and windy, this was one of very few engines I heard breaking
the silence of my peaceful isolation. The white helicopter went nearly over my
head and quickly went out of sight over the next rise of ice. As I continued up
the glacier, the helicopter soon came back into view; this time sitting still
inside a circle of small rocks just wider than the skids, rotors fully
stopped. While the chopper was directly in the path of my easiest route, I
purposely made a wide arc to avoid conversing with the group, though no one
could be seen even after I had walked far past the idle helicopter.

Helicopter on the Tasman Glacier

As I neared my turn-around
time to regain camp before dark, I decided to end the day on a small moraine
covered hill of ice that might grant a better view up-glacier. With thick
clouds lingering overhead, it did not give me much to see, though I witnessed
the tail end of several large tributary glaciers entering from between the
peaks surrounding me. The mountains themselves remained concealed by the clouds
as I finished off a majority of my snacks, saving only a minimum for the long
walk back across the glacier. I was by now some 8 or 9 km from camp, and
entirely too tired and sore to convince my legs to start the walk.

Looking further up-glacier from my turn around point.

I slowly gained the courage
to start the trek back, and soon saw a very much out of place group of people
stumbling around the glacier in front of me. Most of them were undoubtedly
experiencing their first day in crampons, in awe at the strangeness of the
glacier. Again I gave them a wide berth, though they disappeared into a valley
or cave as I passed. Two women in long, white jackets complete with animal fur
lining the hood, popped up near me as I sat taking off my crampons, giving me a
very surprised look as if to say “what on earth are you doing out here by
yourself, and where is your helicopter?”

As I dropped the crampons
into my bag and turned away with a polite wave, saying nothing, they returned
to their guide and I went on my way. The trek out was even more miserable than
the way in. Partly because I entered a much more rugged section of glacier by
moving too far to the west too early, running into another large section of
crevasses generated by the tributary Hochstetter Glacier pouring in from a
large icefall above. Hours later, I made the move for my exit too soon, finding
myself in the middle of the numerous crevasses and steep icy hills below the
Ball Glacier’s confluence and came up just short of where my first scouted
trail had found me a successful way through. I eventually spotted it, one steep
slope below me. I was stuck. I would have to backtrack half a kilometer or
likely more to regain the proper route, or find a way down this slope. Being
only about three meters above a good shelf and easy way down to my target, I
decided to make the slide. In hindsight, digging out the crampons to strap them
on for ten steps would have been worth the effort, but I was tired and ready to
climb into my tent that was so close I could almost smell it. I glissaded down
the icy slope starting out low on my feet, but ended up on my hip, finding the
only rock on the slope with said hip on my way down. I landed still with my
feet below me, but, with a new bruise and throbbing pain in my right hip the
way up the massive loose scree slope above me would now be worse than ever. I
cursed myself for not thinking through that move clearly, for losing my feet on
the way down, for not backtracking to the known route, and for not just putting
on the damn crampons that I was already carrying in my bag. Leaving the ice and
staring up at the formidable slope above keeping me from my sleeping bag, I
turned some music on my phone to give me something else to focus on while I
slipping and slid my way somehow upward, using hands and feet to gain any
ground I could. I barely had any energy to cook food that night, lying in bed
to eat and passing out shortly after without cleaning up anything. My last
thought before falling asleep for some 11 hours was, “today was supposed to be
the easy part of this hike…”

I awoke to a thick fog
surrounding camp and a soreness that demanded I end the trip now and return to
the van, or better yet, spend an extra day just sitting in camp here, moving as
little as possible in the next 24 hours, then bail and return to the van
tomorrow. It was a serious consideration. I closely examined the soles of my
shoes for any reason to justify turning back. Nothing. The glue had held and
they looked like they would last just fine. After stretching my muscles out a
bit and filling up water at the nearby hut, I broke down camp and started the
hike upward. I remember very little from the next couple of hours, as it all
sort of blurred together. My hip was bruised but still mobile, but my legs and
back ached from the odd angles scrambling through loose rocks the entire day
before. But as the fog lifted, so did my spirits, and I was granted incredible
views as I climbed higher along the ridge.

Caroline Glacier spilling down to join with the Ball Glacier which enters from the left

I passed a few people
coming down from the pass reporting it was in fact ice free, and I would be
able to avoid any snow or ice on both sides of the pass if so desired. I, of
course, was still hoping to cross at least some part of the upper Ball Glacier,
though I now doubted that I would have the energy to make another side trip to
explore the Hooker Glacier on the other side. Two glaciers would be plenty for
me. In fact, I would be happy at that point even if Tasman was the only glacier
I got to hike on.

As I came within sight of
the private Caroline Hut (usable only by paying clients of the guiding company
who owns it) it was past 3:00pm, I was out of water and moving incredibly
slowly. Being so close I started to focus on the hut and managed to lose the
trail in a large boulder field under a rise that I now suspected the trail had
gone up and over. I tried traversing around to regain the trail on the other
side, but it ended up with me sliding down a rather steep section of scree,
blocked by an even steeper slope ahead. I had no choice but to turn back,
traverse back below the hill and fight my way up a boulder field to find the
trail up high. Why hadn’t I turned back as soon as I realized I was off route?
I was tired and ready to be done for the day, but my goal and best option for a
campsite was another 500 vertical meters higher to the pass, and some
400 meters back down the other side. The actually hiking distance was almost
5 more kilometers. At the rate I was moving, I was guessing it would be well
after dark by the time I found my campsite.

When I finally neared the
hut around 3:45, a small guided group was just returning for the evening. The
guide saw me from a distance and walked out to meet me, quickly informing me it
was a private hut and I was not allowed to stay in the vicinity. I already knew
this, but I explained I was trying to reach the campsite at the Playing Field,
over the other side of the pass. She seemed unconvinced that I could make it
all the way there that night. She suggested I fill my water at the hut, since
no streams or snow would be seen until just below the pass, and recommended I
make camp below the hut, moving up to the pass the next morning. Since I was
determined to make at least a few more kilometers that night, she suggested a
place just below the closer side of the pass, which, while at a high altitude,
was at least mostly sheltered from wind. She confirmed that the ice and snow
had all melted from the pass, and as of a few days prior, it was in fact
passable without touching snow for the first time anyone at her company had
ever seen. The Ball Glacier was melting quickly, as was the “permanent”
snowfield on the west side of the pass. Any fit hiker in everyday boots could
now, at the right time of year, complete what was once considered a technical
alpine crossing requiring ice skills, crampons, and an axe. That would
certainly take some of the fun out if it. At least the views were good.

After refilling my water, I
trudged on up the ridge. It was another mind-numbing climb up, up, and up until
I reached some melting snowfields just below the pass. I refilled my once again
empty water bottles and enjoyed a view looking down on the Ball Glacier and a
small blue-green lake filled with broken up ice just below the pass. The old
route, in the suggested direction opposite the way I was headed, came directly
from the pass down the icy slope, across where there was now a lake, and
regained the trail a few hundred meters behind me.

Ball Glacier, looking down from Ball Pass.

Now the slope looked
impassable, the top section was loose broken rock instead of glacier, not to
mention the added obstacle of the lake in the basin below. I failed to see any
spot that looked flat enough for a tent in the area, and nothing looked
remotely sheltered from the wind. Besides, I was determined to at least get
over the pass so the last day could be entirely downhill. Sunset was coming
fast, so I made a short snack break at the top of the pass and enjoyed the
views off either side, taking one last long look back toward Tasman, and the
Ball Glacier below, which I never did end up getting to. I would have had to
hike quite a distance down to the ice, then right back up the same way just to
touch it to say I’d hit one more. Oh well, I was happy enough with my full day
on the Tasman and I was, at the time, thinking of very little besides a big
dinner and a flat place to crawl into my sleeping bag.

As I started down the west
side of Ball Pass, I noticed two people coming up, still far below me. At least
I wouldn’t be the latest one out that day. I managed to find a bit of snow left
to boot-ski/glissade down and speed up my descent, quickly dropping several
hundred meters and finally feeling like I was getting somewhere. I talked to
the couple about the route through my next section, as it was notoriously hard
to follow – one of the main reasons the DOC recommends hikers do the trail in a
certain direction. The two pointed me toward a couple of landmarks and
continued on their way up, hoping to sleep at the top of the pass to minimize
their distance of hiking in the dark.

The distance to the Playing
Field actually now seemed possible with the large gain in speed on the
downhill, so I decided to continue on and attempt to make it there for the
night. The sun would be behind the far peaks in less than an hour, but it
wouldn’t be truly dark for some time after that. Plus, it’s not like it would
be my first time setting up camp by light of a headlamp. My only major concern
was crossing the next drainage; it was the one place the ranger had warned me
about going this direction. It was an absolute must hit crossing through the
cliffs on the far side, going to high or too low would mean being cliffed-out
on the far side. Since that side was out of sight until it was too late, I
absolutely had to find the cairns before going through the cliff band. If I
couldn’t get past that section by dark, it would likely mean curling up on a
shallow ledge for a cold sleepless night. As is my usual style, I came in too
low and missed the target, only discovering it when I moved around the cliffs
and my apparent route ceased to exist. This time I cut my losses and
backtracked to an easier slope, moving up the scree as close to the cliffs as I
could. I soon spotted a large cairn in an unlikely place high above me. The
route was a narrow, hands-on climb to a shelf that wrapped around to my first
view of the Playing Field below. I breathed a huge sigh of relief to finally
get a glimpse of what had seemed such an impossible target all day; It was a
massive flat section looking entirely out of place jutting out from such steep,
loose terrain. I finally felt like I could take my time, because even in the
dark I should be able to find a route down from here.

I stumbled down the last
slope to the edge of the field as the last light of the sun illuminated Mount
Cook’s summit high above me. It would have made an incredible photo looking out
from a tent in that moment, but I wasn’t fast enough for that today. As I
hurried to set up the tent I settled for a bit-too-late shot of the half-built
shelter below the dark red summit.

Sunset on Mt. Cook, New Zealand's highest peak. Hooker Glacier on the left.

The stars were starting to
appear by the time I finished the tent and made dinner, so I somehow gathered
the energy to convince my body to go back outside and take another photo before
crawling into bed. My mind knew it would be worth it, though my body took a lot
more coaxing out of the warm, fluffy sleeping bag I had curled up in to eat.

Camping under the stars and the summit of Mount Cook.

The next morning I was
uncertain that my legs would actually hold my weight, but as I devoured the
last of my food – save a few snacks for the way down – they slowly regained
something resembling the strength to move. It was going to be a long day, but
at least it was mostly downhill. As I stared down at the Hooker Glacier below,
I regretted not being able to visit more than one glacier on this trip. I tried
to convince myself there still might be time to drop down to the Hooker, but my
body was having none of that conversation. I knew at this point it would be a
haul just to make it back to the parking lot as it was, I didn’t feel like
adding in a scree slide rivaling that of the access to the Tasman Glacier two
days before.

Hooker Glacier

I knew I wouldn’t be able
to make a climb back up one of those slopes feeling like I was, and I had no
food to push through another day. Besides, if I hadn’t reported in to the DOC visitor
center by the next morning, a search party would be departing before I even
woke up. So out I went.

River out of Hooker Valley

Hours and hours of walking,
tired, sore, and so ready to be back to the bag of potato chips and fresh
apples waiting in my van. The first thing I would be doing though, was finding
a nice spot to go for a dip in a glacial river and refresh my bruises, sore
muscles, and entirely destroyed feet.

Tasman Glacier statistics:

Native Maori Name: Haupapa

Type: Valley Glacier

Location: Mt. Cook National
Park, New Zealand

Source: Mt. Elie De
Beaumont and Hotchstetter Dome

Length: 23.5 km

Width: up to 4 km

Flow: average 0.65
meters/day

Access: Easy hike to
lookout above the Tasman Glacier Parking lot in Mt. Cook National Park. Moraine
covered ice can be accessed in around 3-4 hours one way via Ball Hut track and
down a cairned steep gully just past the hut.

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* Warning *

Glaciers are a dangerous place to those that do not know the risks and have the proper skills to navigate them safely. Do not attempt travel on or near any glacier without proper skills or an experienced guide.